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Among the many rites of passage of childhood – first steps, first words, first day of school, kindergarten graduation, etc. – one important milestone is often overlooked or minimized – the 8th grade YEARBOOK PAGE. Last year my son, William, was nearly deprived of his opportunity to express himself and display his strengths and interests in this unique medium through ignorance and misunderstanding. The following is the unabridged and unedited [although annotated] email I sent to my son’s class advisor setting everything straight. Take heed because this is the kind of stuff they don’t discuss in parenting handbooks.

The subject Yearbook Page

Dear Ms. Zoe,

I am writing in an attempt to clarify William’s yearbook page predicament. I met with Jon [Middle School Director] and briefly with Jean [Principal] yesterday. No one asked William about his yearbook page and what he was thinking when he made it. Everyone, and by everyone I mean Jon and Jean, assumed the page was violent and angry and I was called in to discuss the “inappropriate” page and concerns about his “choices.” No one asked or talked to William about the page.

William had told me he used a quote from the movie “Stepbrothers” and blacked out what he thought would not be an acceptable word. Other than that I didn’t know anything about the page going in. Jon showed me the page [see above] and I didn’t see anything that bad, and by that bad I mean nothing worse than Laura [my daughter who is 3 years older, featured in “The See Through Dress” Aug. 2, 2009] did on her yearbook pages with [Marilyn] Manson quotes, etc. and nothing worse than what William had for a page last year when the page was returned to him a couple of times for redaction, and nothing worse than other pages I had seen in past yearbooks. I told Jon that William’s page did not highlight his best qualities, but it was his page – a snapshot of how he wanted to be remembered. I asked Jon if he had looked up what FTW meant. He told me he hadn’t but thought it meant F__ the world. I told him I didn’t know what it meant, but it seemed that the graphic was specific and might have some other meaning. I told him the first quote was from a funny movie (I couldn’t remember the title when I met with him), one of those male bonding ones that William is fond of. It was intended to be funny. I had not seen the other quote, but it seemed to me that the other one was also intended to be humorous. I asked Jon who would seriously fill a pillowcase full of bars of soap just to beat someone up? According to William the line is hilarious. However, Jon tells me the military actually does this and it was in the movie “Full Metal Jacket.” That was news to me, news to William also. Jon didn’t much like the picture of the poo either. Basically, the yearbook page was a huge FAIL, and by FAIL, I mean, when things go miserably wrong in a way you did not intend. Again no one asked William about his page or what he meant or about his “choices.”

In the brief meeting with Jean (she was in between things and had a couple of minutes) she basically said she hated all of it and FTW meant F___ the world. She did agree to allow William to do the page over.

Then the page made sense to me. It’s basically a review of the 2 video games – Modern Warfare 2 which is a great game and merits a FTW, and Call of Duty, Black Ops which is not a good game and is equal to a pile of poo. I don’t find anything shocking about a 14 year old boy making a point with cartoon poo. The new store Macro Polo next to my office in downtown Newburyport has a toilet in the middle of the store with plastic poo in it for $2.00 each, William tells me someone brought fake poo to a Yankee Swap. Poo is an understandable reference to Middle Schoolers, not a cause for concern.

In short William’s page is not offensive. It is not violent or angry. It represents him as a gamer and someone who likes funny movies. He was misunderstood, mainly because no one asked him about the page, and there were conclusions that were jumped to that in the end were not warranted.

Now, William is upset because he can’t have the page he wanted and because he was misunderstood, because everyone thought the worst of him and because no one asked him about the page, and because he didn’t do anything wrong, and because I had to go in and have a meeting and no one else did even though, according to William, other student pages were equally questionable. He does try to stay out of trouble even if it doesn’t seem like it sometimes.

I know you have a deadline for yearbook pages. I would like to ask if you could work with William so that he can have a page that represents him and is acceptable. I think the context of the quotes and references was and is important to clarify his intent for the page he submitted.

Thank you for your help.

Aline Carriere

Postscript: In my research I also learned that the term “for the win” is derived from the game show “Hollywood Squares” where at the end of each game a contestant would name a celebrity to play “for the win.”

My son, William, is 14 – the age where saying “focus” in a certain way is the height of hilarity. So, when I received THE CALL from Jon, the Middle School Director, who without preliminaries blurted, “Your son drew a picture of a penis” the best I could muster was, “Oh?” My mind whirled with visions of taunting, sexual harassment, worse, etc. along with “you know a penis in Egyptian hieroglyphs means life” and “he probably got that from health class.” A penis in Middle School can be a serious matter, on the other hand it can be on par with “focus.” Context is everything. After oh? and a pause which was unacceptable to Jon, he asked, “Did you hear what I said?”

“Can you explain the circumstances?” I countered. I’ve always had success with answering a question with a question.

He sighed, heavily, that kind of exasperated sigh that conveyed “why do I waste my time?” then “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. He showed it to another student who turned it into Beth.”

More reason for concern. No clue as to the other student’s gender and, of all my son’s teachers, Beth is the one teacher I would vote least likely to react well to a picture of penis in any situation. I looked at the clock. School ended for the day in less than half an hour. “Can you tell me what happened or I can come in? I’m five minutes away.”

“Fine. We’ll meet with Jeanne.” Jeanne is the principal.

“OK. I’ll be right there.” I tidied my desk, my heart pounding as I tried to conjure the scenario that led my son to draw a penis in school such that a teacher would see it and be offended. Thank goodness the school is only five minutes away. When I arrived they were all waiting for me – Jeanne, Jon, and my son looking, in that way only 14- year-olds can manage well, sheepish and defiant.

I sat in the chair reserved for me across from Jeanne as Jon handed me graph paper with a crude, seemingly hastily drawn though anatomically accurate male reproductive organ. “There’s a stick figure on the other side,” Jon added as explanation. I turned the paper over and, indeed, there was an even more crudely drawn figure of a person that resembled the finished product of a game of hangman. For some reason, in the category of “just in case,” I also noted that this particular stick figure did not have a penis. If I had been a computer this would have been the point where I melted down in confusion, but the human mind is capable of amazing calisthenics when receiving information piecemeal. Thus, bewildered at the connection, I looked up for clarification.

THE PARTY LINE: “The class was taking a standardized test in math (hence the graph paper – one mystery solved). William and Jack who were sitting next to each other in the back (probably not a good idea there) finished early and were passing a paper back and forth. Beth was moderating and as she came up to them Jack held up the paper with the picture of the penis and told Beth that William drew it (nice way to throw your friend under the bus). William did not deny it. Beth confiscated the paper and brought it to Jon.”

“We know he’s not a bad boy. We’re disappointed.” Jeanne said. “He knows it’s not appropriate to draw a penis in school. He has apologized to Beth.”

“Some of the girls could have seen it and we’re always concerned about possible sexual harassment. We want everyone to feel comfortable.” Jon added.

I nodded my agreement while he continued, “and we felt that this needed to be addressed promptly because there was another incident with Beth earlier in the day.”

“Oh, good, another incident,” I thought and looked at William who was now hanging his head down from sadness, embarrassment or mirth, I couldn’t tell.

When I looked back to Jon, he continued, “At lunch Beth sat with William and his friends and mentioned how she was having a busy day and said something like, “I’m doing too many things at once I feel like I have A- …, oh, what’s the word I’m looking for?” obviously referring to ADD and William said, “A-S-S?””

Jon said this with a straight face so I didn’t burst out laughing like I wanted to, proud of my clever boy and wondering what Beth was doing sitting with a bunch of 8th grade boys making light of a serious condition anyway. I swallowed and ventured a glance at William who looked at me with an expression that said, in that way only 14-year-olds can manage well, “was I supposed to let an opportunity like that go by?”

Quickly recovering and embracing the gravity of the situation, I said, “Thank you for calling me in. I’m sure William understands that it’s not appropriate to do what he did.” I wanted to ask about the stick figure on the other side of the paper, but my curiosity was overwhelmed by the desire to end the conference, and time flies when you’re listening to riveting stories about your child.

I shook hands with Jon and Jeanne and gathered my recalcitrant son for the ride home. I made it all the way to the end of the school driveway before saying, in that way only mothers can manage well, “Well?”

THE REST OF THE STORY: “OK. So me and Jack (I wanted to correct “Jack and I” but decided facts were more important than grammar at that moment) had finished the test and had to wait for the other kids to finish, so he took a piece of graph paper that we had to figure out the problems and drew a stick figure and handed it to me and said, “here, I drew a picture of you” so I turned it over and drew a picture of “you know” and handed it back to him and said, “here, I drew a picture of YOU.””

I laughed then in spite of the near disaster averted. I told you, context is everything. My son was not a budding pervert (or artist). He is just a 14-year-old boy living in that world such beings inhabit, where they somehow understand each other and tolerate the rest of us who can only guess or remember what that world was like. I marveled at my son who allowed me a glimpse of that world again and the way he ruled within its confines.

So, after years of reading magazines for serious writers and reading many books and more books and reading other magazines and majoring in English Literature and studying Shakespeare and learning Latin and Greek and Babylonian, yes, I have read the Code of Hammurabi in the original, and going to writing workshops, all in preparation for writing THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL, I discovered this past weekend that my true calling is writing trashy romance novels with Victorian-like erotica and pirates.

It was Friday night. I had worked all day. The boys were in Vermont and the girl was out with friends. It was me, the computer and a glass of wine. I had slogged away for two weeks writing everyday on my WORK IN PROGRESS for #novelpi on Twitter, a fun challenge to write a certain number of words each day and report in. My goal was 250, I know, pretty low, but I had never written EVERYDAY so set the bar low and the writing was going well. I was making quota and a bit more.

It was then, alone on Friday in the empty house, that I realized out of nowhere that I could write ANYTHING I WANTED. I picked a scene for my WORK IN PROGRESS that I had thought would end with some significant eye contact. And I wrote it out. O.M.G. I had never written a sex scene, ever, but, after this I felt I had to take a shower, but I figured while I was in the mood I’d try the pirate scene. O.M.G. Then I did take a shower.

On Saturday more pirates, though not more sex. But the damage was done, it’s been TRY TO STOP ME ever since. I have found my niche. I thought it would be horror. I really, really like horror. Or, maybe mystery. I really, really like mysteries. Or just a literary novel that would receive critical acclaim, but would not sell well. But, no – romance, sex and pirates. That’s what I seem to write well in abundance.

I spent Sunday coming to terms with my new found talent. After writing a scene about pirates and whips (it’s not as kinky as it sounds), I walked around encouraging myself – say it loud, say it proud – “I write trashy romance novels.” I’m going to a writing workshop in a week and, in preparation to “what are you working on?” I practiced, “a well-written trashy romance novel” but that sounds like I’m embarrassed about the subject, and have to justify it by adding well-written. So just, “trashy romance novel” will have to do. Now I could say just “romance novel,” but there are many out there without sex and I don’t want to be confused with those, because this novel seems destined to have a lot of sex – with a plot; and not a pizza delivery boy kind of plot either, but a real plot where no one has sex for pages and pages. More like a combination of Daphne DuMaurier, Treasure Island and Anonymous. I can deal with that.

Depending on what route I take to drive my children to school and to my office each day, I pass by the house of Robert Hayes on Main Street in Amesbury, Massachusetts. It’s a lovely house overlooking the Merrimack River, across the street from Lowell’s Boat Shop which was built in 1793 and is the oldest operating boat shop in the United States. There are other lovely houses along this route, but I notice this one each day because Bob Hayes, 37 years old, walked through Logan Airport for the last time on the morning of September 11, 2001 headed to Los Angeles on American Airlines Flight 11 for a business meeting. He left behind his wife, Debbie, who he ironically met at Logan Airport in 1989 and two small boys, Robbie who was 4 years old at the time and Ryan who was 8 months old. Tomorrow there will be a memorial there where Debbie still lives with her sons; but I don’t need a memorial to remember. I remember each day as I drive by his house.

After I pass the house of Bob Hayes I continue over the Hines Bridge. In the winter bald eagles come to nest in the tall white pines on either side of the bridge. We even have an Eagle Festival in February each year. Derek Hines was 21 years old on September 11, 2001. Four years later, on September 1, 2005 1st Lt. Derek Hines, from Newburyport, Massachusetts, was killed in Afghanistan in a firefight. He left behind his parents and siblings. The bridge was dedicated to him in 2006. Each time I cross the bridge I am grateful for those who serve and sad for those who gave their lives in that service, and for those left behind. I would not want to be the mother of bridge. Not even one where eagles fly in winter.

Immediately following the Hines Bridge is the Chain Bridge, the oldest suspension bridge in the United States, which signals the crossing into Newburyport. After I drop off my children at school, I continue along High Street past the Newburyport Superior Court, the oldest regularly operating courthouse in the United States that opened in 1805 and where John Quincy Adams, Daniel Webster and Rufus Choate argued, to my office downtown. In my office I have a copy of the Bill of Rights on the wall.

In the afternoon I pick up my children from school and follow the same route in reverse. Coming home I also pass Holy Family Church, and the house where John Greenleaf Whittier lived and wrote “Snowbound.” When we arrive home I get the mail and the newspaper.

On September 11, 2001 Jordan Shay was 14 years old. He graduated from Amesbury High School in 2005, the same year Derek Hines was killed in Afghanistan. In the newspaper I read that on September 3, 2009 Spc. Jordan Shay, 22 years old, was killed in Iraq on his second tour of duty. He came home today. He will be buried this Saturday following a service at Holy Family Church. In between will be another September 11th.

Some things you just can’t explain. So when the cop standing on my porch asked, “Did your husband threaten to kill the family?” I could have said a lot of things. I could have said, “You know it’s actually a funny story.” Or “He didn’t mean it like that. Or “It was a mistake.” In the interminable moments between the question and my reply I thought “this is stupid, Michael is an idiot, Laura is an idiot, where’s William?, someone shut the dogs up.” One thought overshadowed all, “DON’T SAY ANYTHING.” I had done enough Motions to Suppress Statements to know that when a cop is standing on your porch because your 14-year old daughter called 911 you don’t let him in and you DON’T SAY ANYTHING. Of course I also knew that there are times when saying nothing is worse than saying something. So I said, “It’s hot.”
It had been hot for three days; really hot, sticky and humid and there was no escape. The news story on TV all weekend was about Neil Entwistle who had just been convicted of killing his wife and baby daughter. My husband, Michael, and I were watching TV when Michael noticed that a catfish in the fish tank had died and was floating at the top. The thermometer on the tank was way up in the red and the plecostomus was sucking frantically on the glass. Michael turned off the heater, but the damage was done, within moments the other two catfish were dead and floating. My daughter, Laura and I immediately began accusing Michael of KILLING THE FISH. The heater had been his idea. Why didn’t he turn it off when it got so hot outside?
He would have none of it. “The tank got hot because it was near a sunny window.”
No, it’s ALL YOUR FAULT. If the tank hadn’t been heated to begin with, it wouldn’t have gotten so hot and KILLED THE FISH.”
Michael did not understand the logic of this. It was not his fault. It was at this point that Laura had HER BRILLIANT IDEA. She started to empty the tank water into a container.
Michael asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to take some water and put it in the fridge to cool the water and then put it back in the tank.” She explained that cold water from the tap had chlorine that was bad for the fish. I expressed my opinion of the soundness of her idea. She then walked toward the kitchen with the container.
Michael cut her off right around the bathroom. “You are NOT putting filthy water in the refrigerator.”
“Yes, I am.”
A struggle ensued. There were muffled noises from the bathroom then, “Now, look what you’ve done.” This from Michael.
“What I’ve done? You KILLED THE FISH and now you spilled the water all over the bathroom.”
Michael came out of the bathroom to where I was sitting in the living room. “Why don’t you back me up?”
“Because you KILLED THE FISH, and I thought putting tank water in the fridge was fine.”
It was then that under his breath, quite calmly and not even in anger, but with some exasperation about being labeled a fish murderer, unjustly in his mind, and finding himself alone in his protestations he said to me, “Now, I know why people kill their whole families.” Laura, who had not been watching TV and did not know or care about Neil Entwistle overheard this statement. She was angry that her father had KILLED THE FISH, thwarted her plan and then accused her of spilling tank water all over the bathroom when it was ALL HIS FAULT. She went to the kitchen and picked up the phone, brought it to the living room and announced, “I’m calling 911. You just threatened to kill the family.” When she actually got the police station she hung up.
DEAD SILENCE.
“Laura, you didn’t actually call 911, did you?” I asked.
“Yeah, but when I call usually no one answers.”
“What do you mean when you usually call?”
“I’ve called before from my cell-phone and I didn’t get a person answering.”
“Cell phones work different . . .”
The phone rang in Laura’s hand.
“That’s the police calling back.” I said.
Laura now panicked, “What do I do. Here you answer it.”
“Hello,” I said in my best “Oh, everything’s fine, nothing’s going on here” voice.
“We received a 911 call from your address.”
“My daughter called 911 by mistake.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Sure.”
“Yes, yes. Yes. Everything’s OK.” Hang up. Done.
Until the cruiser pulled up in front of the house. Michael looked around like he was NEVER going to see us again and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You know I didn’t mean it.” By then my eleven-year old son, William had joined us and he blamed Laura for being stupid. Always a reliable go-to accusation. “Tell the truth,” was the last thing Michael said to us as he walked out to the porch like someone going to his execution.
Truth. The truth is not always your friend. It will not always set you free, sometimes it will get you into a lot of trouble and even arrested. A child knows this. And the truth in this case required a lot of back-story and explaining. This is how our family resolves things. We say things. We’re dramatic. Especially, Laura, she wants to be an actress, you know.
Michael came back in. But I could tell from his look that it wasn’t over. “Laura, he wants to talk to you.”
“What do I say?”
“Tell the truth.” Michael repeated.
“But only as much as you need to. The less you say the better.” I added. Trust me on this. Then Laura came back in and it was my turn. I do not know what Michael or Laura said but “It’s hot” pretty much said it all for me and it was the truth.
“Well, I’m hot too, but I don’t say I’m going to kill my family.”
Again, responses flowed through my mind. “You don’t understand my family,” “you must not have a very exciting family,” “there’s a man with a gun on my porch,” “get the hell off my porch.” I even thought I might tell him the whole story of how Michael KILLED THE FISH. I said, “We’ve been married for 25 years. He would never do anything to hurt any of us.” Which wasn’t a great response, but it was again the truth.

“God lets thousands of people die in an earthquake, but he helps them win bike races?” Laura said in her best, her very best and cutting sarcastic voice that ended the conversation for then and forever, and made the Tour de France winner look like a fool. God did not exist. Which is really fine because that means this is all we have. That’s what I tell the Elders when they come around.
“I live each day as though that’s all there is. I have no idea where this day came from or if there will be another. And I sure as Hell am not waiting for Heaven.” Or something like that. I realize the Elders and Jehovah’s Witnesses who visit are sincere and concerned for my soul. I am polite, but firm. We are responsible for the world in which we live. I am focused on this life, not an after-life or another life. I believe in my fellow humans on this planet, not a deity. Why wait for Heaven, when we could transform our Earth here and now?
And faith? An atheist has more faith than all religions combined. If there is one tenant of any religion it is the ability to provide an answer. A mystical answer, a spiritual answer, but an answer nonetheless. The answer to where we came, where we are going, what we must do. Being an atheist is like flying on a trapeze without a net. It is the freedom and exhilaration to accept the unknown, and faith that there will be another day, another chance and someone to catch you.
I rarely think of God anymore. And when I do, I think that the idea of God has caused more misery than peace, more hate than love. Why do people thank God for curing their cancer when he allowed them to develop it in the first place? Why pray to be saved when God could have prevented the disaster at the start? I don’t believe it anymore. Nearly kills you to save you? I would rather believe that God doesn’t exist than believe in a God who is sadistic and fickle.
I lament all the Sunday mornings I worshipped a God who exhibits nearly every deadly sin. He is greedy, vain, selfish, wrathful, and envious. I don’t, however, regret learning about Jesus. His life remains an example of the best qualities of which we are capable. And, like Jesus, many a son and daughter have devoted their lives to others and have died to save others. I don’t see how God’s sacrifice was greater. “He gave his only son, so that you could be saved. Have you been saved?”
Yes, yes I have. It happened at dusk one January in Vermont. I was driving home with Laura. It had started to snow, a slushy slippery snow that had accumulated on the road. I was going down a hill and had to take a hard left. I stepped on the brakes to slow, pumping the brakes, but the car kept sliding past the turn and veered right nearly into a steep ditch. I couldn’t move the car. I didn’t want to end up in the ditch. We stayed in the car for several minutes until a car stopped behind us. It was our neighbor, Leonard Hammond, an old time dairy farmer. He tapped on the window and I explained what happened.
“Well, you can’t stay here. I’ll move the car for you. I’m kinda dirty and smell a bit of manure, though.”
He didn’t smell a bit of manure. He smelled a lot of manure. But I didn’t care. “That’s fine.” I said, “I just didn’t feel safe moving the car.”
Leonard told us to get out of the car and wait across the road while he turned the car around. We did as instructed and watched as he drove the car out of trouble and stopped beside us. He then went back for his car and made the turn onto our road. As I went up to the driver’s side window to thank him I watched the plow go over the hill at a good clip. It had a huge plow, as plows do in the winter in Vermont, and it plowed through the space recently occupied by my car as though it were a train speeding on tracks. Had we been in the car, the plow would have forcefully hit our car. There would have been no time to avoid us after the plow crested the hill. There is no question that we would have been killed or seriously injured if Leonard hadn’t come along.
So, when a religious type person asks if I’ve been saved, my answer is always the same, “Yes, yes I have. Leonard Hammond saved me.” We are not alone, we have each other.

The Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum in Boston is my museum. When I first walked in those many years ago I felt that I had returned to a place I had never been. The museum is a reproduction of a 15th Century Italian palazzo with imported marble and a mosaic courtyard. Each room is decorated and filled with art from a specific period, style or country in livable spaces with tables, chairs, couches, lanterns, art objects, letters. The paintings on the walls are by Titian, Rembrandt, Bellini, Botticelli, Sargent, Velazquez, Raphael, Rubens and other renowned artists. By her will, Mrs. Gardner specified that nothing in the museum could be moved or changed, ever. The rooms are exactly as they were when she was alive and will remain that way always. I found extraordinary comfort in this. Every time I visited, everything would be just the same. I would change, the world would change, but not this place.
When I visited periodically over the years, I could find the objects I loved exactly where they had been before, waiting for me. At night I would conjure the paintings, the Rembrandt, the Vermeer and the Botticelli, my favorites, and picture them where they were fixed in the dark.

“The Storm on the Sea of Galilee” is a large canvas in a gold frame that hangs directly in front of you as you enter the Dutch Room. When I first entered the room I noticed it immediately. It seemed to glow – the spray of the water radiating like the sun. The painting depicts the twelve apostles with Jesus in a boat on the Sea of Galilee taken from the Gospel of Mark 4:35 – 40.

And the same day, when the even was come, he saith unto them, Let us pass over unto the other side.
And when they had sent away the multitude, they took him even as he was in the ship.
And there were also with him other little ships.
And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full.
And he was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow: and they awake him, and say unto him, Master, carest thou not that we perish?
And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still.
And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.
And he said unto them, Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith? (King James version).

Jesus had fallen asleep, exhausted from a day of preaching to the crowd. In the passage before the storm scene, Jesus tells the parable of the mustard seed. The colors of the painting are shades of blue and gold and appear luminescent. You can see Jesus asleep and sense the fear of the apostles. All the apostles are accounted for – five frantically attending to the sails, others surrounding Jesus, asking, “should we wake him?” And one, a self portrait of Rembrandt, calmly looks out at the viewer. “I am here and I am not afraid, would not have been afraid. You come, too.” Standing there looking at the painting you believe you can enter. Standing a few short feet away the painting seems large enough for you to believe you can. Even though it is the height of the storm, you know the ending, you can join them in the boat. You have faith and believe. Standing there you hear the water, the waves crashing so loudly that you hear nothing else.

Behind you now, by the window, is “The Concert” by Vermeer. It is also displayed so you can see the painting as you walked into the Dutch Room, to the right of the door. I heard tales of how its location beside the window vexed the curators. How dare Mrs. Gardner place the Vermeer where it would be exposed to sunlight, though dappled through the bamboo shade. But where else could a painting by the master of light live? The painting depicted above the singer in “The Concert” is “The Procuress” by Dirck Van Baburen, at the time owned by Vermeer’s mother-in-law. “The Procuress” now hangs in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, a short distance from the Gardner Museum. I enjoyed the thought. The paintings were close, nearly reunited – like old friends long separated who may at any time discover they live but a few streets away from each other. I loved the room in the painting; the distinctive and sharp black and white floor. I never see a black and white checkered floor without thinking of Vermeer and then . . . . I never thought “I want a painting like that, as beautiful as that.” I thought, “I want a room like that. I could live in a room like that. And look, Vermeer left space to dance. I could dance in a room like that.”

“The Madonna of the Eucharist” by Botticelli is upstairs on the third floor. First you pass through a grand red room with “The Rape of Europa” by Titian, a large dark and violent painting. If you then take a right into a long, narrow room, you will miss the Botticelli. It is to the left, behind you. It seems small after the grandeur, light and air of the room you just passed. The space is intimate. There are three figures in the painting. An angel presents the baby Jesus with a bowl of grapes and wheat. Mary cradles Jesus in one arm and touches a sheaf of wheat with her right hand. Her face is gentle and her expression seems one of gratitude and bewilderment as she looks at the gift. Jesus has an expression of understanding beyond his age and a hand raised in blessing. The scene is heartbreaking. The angel and Jesus know that the grapes and wheat will be transformed to the wine and bread that will become his Last Supper. Both Jesus and the fruits of the earth will grow and fulfill their destiny and become one. But Mary doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that her child is destined to be sacrificed to save mankind. She doesn’t know that the two objects she tenderly touches represent the beginning and the end. I hope she does not know. I am comforted that she doesn’t yet know. But no one can save her from the pain that is to come.
On March 18, 1990 the Gardner Museum changed. The thief did not stand and enter Vermeer’s enchanted room or the boat on the Sea of Galilee. He did not see. He did not believe. He cut, he took, he stole.
I have gone back to the Gardner Museum with my children and seen the empty frames on the wall. I describe to them the ghosts I see. My son’s eyes grow wide when he learns of the five million dollar reward and his face lights up with hope of riches as my eyes again fill with tears. They will never know the museum as I did. They have grown up without the paintings I believed were eternal; their legacy shadowed by the theft and empty frames. But I bring them to the third floor. We walk past the Titian to the Botticelli in the long gallery. The thieves did not touch the Botticelli.
My daughter sketches in the courtyard filled with cascading nasturtiums while still, Jesus sleeps. Somewhere in the world he sleeps. When will he wake and calm the storm? Have you no faith?